‘Well, yes, so he did. He told us as much.’
‘Actually, Jack,’ she said, catching hold of his arm excitedly, ‘that proves Mr Laidlaw knows Mrs Rotherwell!’
‘If you can describe meeting someone for coffee twenty years ago as knowing them, yes, I suppose so.’
‘Well, don’t you see? Mr Laidlaw runs into Mrs Rotherwell and bumps her off!’
‘But why?’
‘Because Mrs Rotherwell knew Jane Davenham and knew Andrew Laidlaw was having an affair with her!’
Jack hid his head in his hands. ‘Betty,’ he said in a muffled voice, ‘stop talking complete mashed potatoes, will you?’
‘Well, I like that …’ Betty began indignantly.
Jack looked up. ‘Darling. Sweetheart. Follow me here. By the time Mrs Rotherwell came back to England, Violet Laidlaw was dead. What’s more, dead from natural causes. When we got back to the Yard, Bill telephoned the doctor who attended Mrs Laidlaw.’
‘How did you find out who the doctor was?’
‘Bill dug up the death certificate. The doctor was shocked that there should be any doubt whatsoever about Violet Laidlaw’s death. He’s the family doctor and knew both Mr and Mrs Laidlaw well. Bill had to tell him it was a routine enquiry, checking up on death statistics, as it seemed a bit rich to cast suspicion on Laidlaw without any cause. Apparently Mrs Laidlaw had a heart condition, exacerbated by her mental state, for years. The doctor said that in his opinion, it was only Laidlaw’s care that kept her going as long as she did. If there was anything that could be done for her, Laidlaw did it without question.’
‘I must say that sounds rather nice of him,’ said Betty.
‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it? There’s also the minor point that if you are going to bump off your wife so you can marry your girlfriend, you might as well wait until your girlfriend has sorted out her own matrimonial tangles. By the time Mrs Rotherwell came back to England, Andrew Laidlaw could have been having affairs with fifty Jane Davenhams without anyone giving a tinker’s curse.’
‘He might not have wanted it to get about, though. Especially as he was supposed to have been so very devoted to his wife.’ She clicked her tongue in irritation. ‘I just wish Jenny’s father wasn’t involved. Look, say it is Mr Laidlaw …’
‘Here we go again,’ said Jack with a smile. ‘What did he do, apart from bump off Mrs Rotherwell?’
‘Well, he bumped off Mrs Davenham as well. To cover it up, he pretended he’d been madly in love with her.’
‘It seems a bit wholesale, but all right,’ said Jack grinning. ‘For the sake of argument, we’ll say he did. What’s his motive?’
‘Perhaps Jane Davenham found out somehow that he murdered Caroline Trevelyan years ago. Actually, he might not have murdered Mrs Davenham. She might have been suspicious of him and fled. But in the meantime, she’s told her old friend, Mrs Rotherwell, all about him. Then Andrew Laidlaw discovers that Mrs Rotherwell knows all about it.’
‘How? Does she confront him, saying, “I Know All”?’
‘Beast,’ said Betty punching him in the side. ‘You’re laughing at me.’
‘That’s because it’s a goofy idea. If Mrs Rotherwell had any idea Laidlaw was responsible for Caroline Trevelyan’s disappearance, surely she’d have mentioned it to me when we had lunch. She also came with me to Scotland Yard, where she had Bill’s undivided attention. She could’ve told him. And then, just to cap it off, she had Detective Constable Horrocks sitting in the lobby at her beck and call. She could’ve told him anytime she wanted.’
‘That is a problem,’ said Betty in a small voice. ‘I just don’t want it to be Jenny’s father who’s to blame.’
‘Unfortunately, as I said before, that’s neither here nor there. Just think what Mrs Rotherwell did tell me. And Bill, for that matter. And that was that she’d seen Trevelyan and that he’d seen her. Don’t forget, he’s wanted for murder. Mrs Rotherwell is a threat to him, all right. A serious threat.’
‘Oh, I suppose so,’ said Betty impatiently. ‘Where does this Mrs Davenham fit in, then? What’s the connection between Jenny’s father and her? I suppose she could’ve just have happened to have known Mrs Rotherwell by coincidence and then gone off with a new boyfriend, but it’s much neater if there’s a proper connection.’
‘There might not be any connection,’ said Jack with a shrug. ‘It really could be just a coincidence but here’s a guess, if you want one. Matthew Rotherwell told us that his mother had met Jane Davenham. Mrs Rotherwell told us that Trevelyan was keeping an eye on her. That’s pretty scary. She could’ve easily have said something to her old friend …’
His voice trailed away. ‘That’s it!’ He sat upright and snapped his fingers together. ‘Blimey, Betty, that really is it! Mrs Rotherwell told us, both me and Bill, that she’d caught a fleeting glance of Trevelyan when she was with “a friend”. Mrs Rotherwell hardly had any friends, not now. Not after having lived in Ceylon for years. She hardly knew anyone in England. What’s the betting that old friend is Jane Davenham?’
Betty gulped. ‘That’s horribly convincing, Jack. But why didn’t she tell her son?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Jack thoughtfully. ‘Maybe she felt protective towards him. As I said, it must’ve been scary. However, if the two women were actually together when Mrs Rotherwell spotted Trevelyan, she could have easily pointed him out.’
Betty stared at him. ‘That’s right,’ she said quietly. She gripped his arm. ‘Jack! The new boyfriend, Mrs Davenham’s new boyfriend. Could he be Trevelyan?’
‘What? But surely Mrs Rotherwell would’ve said so.’
‘Would she? She might not know. Say it really was a fleeting glance. Mrs Rotherwell tells her friend all about him and the friend – Jane Davenham – listens horrified, but without really believing it. She says nothing at the time, but then determines to have it out with him when they’re alone.’
Jack shook himself and let out a deep breath. ‘It could be. I hope not. However, this is nothing but speculation.’
‘If I’m right,’ began Betty hesitantly, ‘why’s it all happening now? Say it is Jenny’s father who’s behind everything. Why’s he suddenly reappeared now?’
‘Because we’ve been digging into it,’ said Jack bitterly. ‘We’ve poked a stick into the hornet’s nest.’
‘Maybe he hasn’t reappeared,’ said Betty, continuing her chain of thought. ‘Maybe he’s always been here. After all, it was Mrs Rotherwell who’s newly arrived. Jenny’s always said that she thought someone was watching her. She’s thought that on and off for years. Maybe it’s him.’
A search of Mrs Rotherwell’s effects in storage turned up, as Julia Rotherwell had predicted, no old letters but a handful of snapshots. With a photograph provided by Matthew Rotherwell and help from the hotel, an increasingly worried Matthew and Julia Rotherwell agreed to a description being issued to the press and a missing persons enquiry being sent out to all the police authorities in the British Isles.
‘I don’t think much of the description in the papers,’ said Jack, who had called in on Bill in his office in Scotland Yard. ‘Forty-eight years old, medium height, grey-haired, spare build, wears gold, wire-rimmed, round spectacles and gold wedding ring, speaks with a firm, clear voice. Last seen wearing mid-calf-length, double-breasted, grey wool coat, fastened with three large carved buttons, with inset sleeves and deep cuffs and natural straw cloche hat trimmed with wax fruit, etcetera, etcetera. That could describe a whole raft of middle-aged women. I can’t say I think much of the photo, either. It’s a good description of her coat. She was wearing that outfit when I met her at the Criterion. The hat was unforgettable. It’s a pity that the description of the woman herself isn’t as detailed.’
‘Well, can you add anything to it?’ demanded Bill.
Jack hesitated. ‘I don’t know that I can,’ he admitted, rubbing his nose.
‘That’s the trouble,’ said Bill. ‘It’s blinkin’ hard to describe someone so tha
t they’re instantly recognisable. In fact, I don’t think it’s possible. We only got the clothes she was wearing because the clerk on the desk remembered the hat. He had the impression she was wearing grey and Julia Rotherwell supplied the description of it. That’s where the photo comes in.’
‘A picture’s worth a thousand words, as they say in the adverts,’ murmured Jack. ‘Only in this instance, I wouldn’t agree.’
‘It’s the best there is,’ said Bill with a shrug. ‘Matthew Rotherwell chose it. The trouble is, it’s obviously taken in tropical sunlight and she’s wearing a hat. However, as Mr Rotherwell said, we wouldn’t even have that, if they didn’t have a neighbour who owned a Box Brownie.’
Jack put down the newspaper. ‘Has anyone seen her?’
‘A good few people think they’ve seen her,’ said Bill with a grimace. ‘I don’t know how many middle-aged women of medium height and build with grey coats and straw hats with wax fruit on them there are in England, but I’m beginning to think that we’ll shortly have a record of every one of them. The Chief,’ he added with feeling, ‘is beginning to get a bit shirty about the amount of police time this is taking up.’
‘He does know about the Michael Trevelyan connection?’ asked Jack.
Bill nodded. ‘He does. In fact, he suggested that I call round and see Mrs Shilton. If Michael Trevelyan really is alive and kicking, then it’s at least possible that his sister knows something about it. From what you’ve told me she was absolutely certain that he was innocent, so he may very well turn to her. After all, he’s got to live somewhere.’
‘Mrs Shilton’s got at least one servant,’ Jack said thoughtfully. ‘I doubt if Trevelyan would risk coming to the house.’
‘Nevertheless, it’s the only connection we’ve got.’ He raised an inquisitive eyebrow. ‘I did ask the Chief if I could ask you to come with me. After all, Mrs Shilton has met you. She might be a bit more forthcoming, as she knows you as a friend of her niece’s. In fact, if you’re free this afternoon, you could give her a ring and arrange to see her.’
It was on the morning of the same day that the doorbell rang at number 34, Catton Street. Mrs Muscliff wiped her hands on a tea towel and went to open the door.
At first sight she thought the man standing on the doorstep was a foreigner. He had a bushy dark beard and very brown skin, but his voice, when he spoke, was reassuringly cockney. ‘Mornin’ Missus. Delivery for a party name of …’ He turned his head to look at the label on the box. ‘Langton. Miss J. Langton.’
Mrs Muscliff unconsciously took in the van outside, the man’s khaki overalls and then, her eyes widening, the size of the box. ‘Whatever’s in there?’
The man shrugged. ‘Dunno. It could be a chair or somfink.’
‘You’d better bring it in,’ said Mrs Muscliff, standing to one side. She glanced at the stairs leading off the hall. ‘Miss Langton’s room is on the second floor.’
‘I’ll take it up to her, shall I?’ asked the delivery man, hefting the box. ‘It’s not too heavy but it’s awkward.’
‘Thanks,’ said Mrs Muscliff. ‘That’s very good of you.’ She doubted if Miss Langton would be able to manage it and she certainly didn’t want a box that size cluttering up her hall. ‘She’s out at work at the moment, so I’ll just get the key.’
She took the key from the board, then led the way up the stairs at a stately plod, the delivery man grunting behind her.
As she opened the door to Jenny’s room, the delivery man paused, his head to one side. ‘Was that the doorbell?’
‘I didn’t hear nothing.’
‘I’m sure I heard the bell.’
‘Drat the thing,’ she grumbled, setting off down the stairs. ‘I’d better see who it is.’
The door to Mrs Shilton’s house was opened, as before, by Edith, the maid, who greeted Jack and Bill with a worried smile. ‘It’s nice to see you again, sir,’ she said to Jack as she took their coats. She cast an anxious glance behind her, down the hallway. ‘There’s something up. I don’t know what, but the mistress is upset.’
‘About us coming to see her?’ asked Jack.
Edith shook her head. ‘No, it’s not that. I don’t know what’s wrong and that’s the truth. If you could come this way, though, the mistress is expecting you. Miss Langton’s here as well.’
She showed them into the sitting room. Jenny Langton stood up and greeted them with a look of relief. ‘Mr Rackham! I’m really pleased to see you. And you too, of course, Jack. Come in and sit down. Aunty told me you were on your way. I didn’t think you’d mind if I was here as well. I’d have to tell you what’s happened, anyway.’
Jack looked at Mrs Shilton’s face. She sat pale-faced, with a hand to her mouth. ‘Whatever’s wrong?’ he asked, pulling up a chair.
Mrs Shilton glanced from him to Bill and shook her head.
‘We can tell Jack, Aunty,’ urged Jenny. ‘And I’ve met Mr Rackham before.’ She glanced at Bill with a shy smile. ‘I told Aunty that I’d met you.’
Mrs Shilton gathered herself to speak, then stopped.
‘Please tell us what’s wrong,’ asked Jack.
Mrs Shilton blinked gratefully at him, reassured by his tone. ‘I can’t understand it!’ she said with a sniff, her voice wavering. She looked at Jenny. ‘I can’t think why your father would do such a thing.’
Jack blinked as the significance of the words struck him. ‘Your father?’
Jenny nodded.
Bill drew his breath in. ‘Are we talking about Michael Trevelyan?’ he said quietly. Mrs Shilton nodded miserably. ‘I think,’ said Bill grimly, ‘you’d better tell me all about it.’
Mrs Shilton shrank back.
Jenny saw her aunt’s hesitation, and plunged in. ‘It happened this morning,’ she said in a rush, silencing her aunt’s protests. ‘A delivery man arrived at my house with a big box for me. I live in a boarding house on Catton Street, off Southampton Row,’ she explained to Bill. ‘There’s four other lodgers and the landlady lives there as well, of course. I was at work, but the landlady opened the door to the man. Well, usually the landlady would simply tell him to leave the box in the hall, but, as I say, it was a big box, so he offered to carry it upstairs. That seemed very nice of him, so she took him upstairs and opened my door. I usually keep it locked, but she has a key, of course. When I got home, the landlady mentioned it. I wasn’t expecting a parcel so I was curious, naturally enough, so I went straight upstairs and opened the box.’
She paused.
‘Well?’ demanded Jack. ‘What was in the box?’
‘Nothing. It was empty, apart from this. This was inside.’
She reached into her handbag and took out a small jeweller’s case and passed it to Jack. He opened it with a puzzled frown, then gave a silent whistle.
Inside, set on cotton wool, was a square silver brooch made of twisted silver wire, with a tassel of fine silver links. It was set with a square-cut sapphire with tiny sapphires inset into the silver filigree. Although striking, it looked heavy and old-fashioned. Jack could imagine Mrs Shilton wearing it, but not Jenny. ‘It’s Edwardian, I think,’ he said, turning it over in his hand.
Jenny nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’ She swallowed. ‘It came with a note.’ She held out a folded piece of paper to Jack, who opened it.
There was one typewritten line on the note. ‘“This was your mother’s”,’ he read. ‘“She would have wanted you to have it. She always loved you”.’
He stared at Jenny.
‘Can I see that?’ asked Bill, urgently.
At a nod from Jenny, Jack passed it over. ‘And you think this is from your father?’ Bill demanded.
‘Who else can it be from?’ she said. ‘Who else would have my mother’s brooch?’
Mrs Shilton gave a sniff. ‘I don’t understand it,’ she said once more. ‘Your father said it was best for you if he disappeared …’ She stopped as she saw the intense look Bill gave her. She gave a little cry and turned to Jack.<
br />
‘When did he tell you that?’ asked Jack, his voice very gentle.
She gave a little sob, dabbed her eyes, then screwed her handkerchief into a ball. ‘I know it was wrong of me,’ she said desperately. ‘I know that, but he was my brother and I knew he was innocent. After he escaped from the police, he came here at the dead of night.’ She glanced at Jenny. ‘Your Uncle Alan was alive then. He told Michael that the best thing he could do was to give himself up, but Michael said that someone wanted him dead and he had to get away.’
She gave a little wriggle of dissent. ‘I couldn’t believe that. I mean, who would want to harm Michael? He never did any wrong to anyone.’
‘There was the letter,’ said Jenny uncertainly. ‘The letter my mother supposedly wrote. Whoever wrote that obviously wished him harm.’
‘It must’ve been some sort of misunderstanding,’ said Mrs Shilton helplessly. ‘Anything else would be …’ She sought for a word. ‘Wicked. I just don’t believe it.’
Mrs Shilton, thought Jack, probably didn’t believe it. She was the sort of person who, kindly herself, had been brought up with the axiom that if you didn’t have anything nice to say about anyone, then don’t say it. What’s more, you mustn’t think it, either. If that meant ignoring the obvious, then the obvious would be ignored.
‘What did your brother do?’ asked Bill.
Mrs Shilton sniffed. ‘He went to Australia. Alan didn’t like it, but I persuaded him to help with money and clothes and so on. I knew he was innocent,’ she repeated, correctly interpreting Bill’s look. ‘We had to help. Once Michael was safely on the ship, Alan washed his hands of him. He said he never wanted to hear from him again. He was very firm about it,’ she added with a petulant note.
‘And did you?’ asked Bill. ‘Did you hear from him?’
Mrs Shilton hesitated, then looked away. ‘I had a postcard from Sydney. It just said, “Arrived. M.”. That’s the last I ever heard from him,’ she said in a muffled voice, the handkerchief pressed to her mouth.
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